


Among these Old Walls

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Crack, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Ghosts, Horror Comedy, M/M, Modern AU, Rated m for language and Charles Frederick Des Voeux's flights of fancy, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-31 15:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: Cornelius Hickey and the gang embark on their craziest scheme yet. A writer searches for his muse, passions flair, secrets are revealed, love blooms and lives are changed forever in a phantasmagoric night of discovery.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_And the will therein_ _lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will._

-Fragment from the notebook of ‘CFDV’

\---

THE SMALL TOWN OF MARINER’S COVE. SOMEWHERE NEAR HUDSON BAY. NIGHT.           

 

For a man supposedly able to to descend to the lowest depths of human experience, it came as a surprise to Cornelius Hickey that he found the awkward atmosphere in the car to be nearly unbearable. A discomfort made all the more worse by the fact of him being tightly wedged between William Gibson and Solomon Tozer in the backseat which, in this particular instance, was definitely not a good thing. The silent, malevolent glaring going on between the two men explained everything.

  

But this cannot be helped, Hickey reminded himself, I need them-at least for the time being… It was all part of his current scheme; the latest in a long list of-even he had to admit to himself-string of failures. But this time, he felt with the utmost confidence, will finally be the one to bear fruit, and what a harvest it will be! Like always, inspiration struck in disaster’s immediate aftermath. Immediately after the the implosion of the Hickey/Gibson/Tozer triumvirate he found himself disgraced and alone on the couch. Nothing wrong with that of course, Hickey had been exiled to much worse places, and he had been fine with wallowing on the cushions until inspiration came crashing from the heavens in the form of Magnus Manson sitting on him one night.  

   

“M-mmm-magnus....” Hickey’s voice was muffled against the mighty bulwark of Manson’s backside. “Your...crushhhhhinnnng…meeee….”

 

“Sorry Cornelius,” Magnus said in his oddly childlike voice, “but Solomon said he’d let me have the TV all to myself all night if I did this.”

 

“Tell...Tozer...he can sit on…”

 

“Shh!”   

 

Craning his head to peer around Manson’s bulk, Hickey made out some guy in a tight black t-shirt carrying on about ghosts. Not with the fucking ghosts again! Hickey struggled in vain against the larger man’s weight. Once as a joke, Hickey watched _The Shining_ with Manson and what was supposed to be an amusing time backfired horribly when Hickey found himself sharing a bed not only with Gibson but with a frightened Manson trembling in between them-this went on for a month and needless to say, physical relations between him and dear Billy suffered too. Now after this show was over Hickey knew he would have to share the couch and, as present circumstances were proving, that would not be tolerable in the slightest. Hickey started wriggling like a snake out from under his talking prison and by the time he was free he had an idea. The man in the tight t-shirt, the EVP sessions, the goofy guy ending up in terrifying situations (there was a certain someone like that in his life already), and most importantly, the fame and fortune… It all struck a chord within Cornelius Hickey.  

  

“Manson,” he gasped as he still struggled for breath, “what can that man do that we can’t?”     

 

Even now, Hickey remembered how Manson’s wide eyes opened in excitement and glowed-lit up by the television’s light.  

 

_Honest work is for fools._

 

Things quickly spiraled out from there. Hickey used his skills to rally the necessary followers to his cause. Bringing over Magnus Manson and Robert Golding was easy-the former already was fascinated by the paranormal and the latter was so painfully desperate to fit in with Hickey’s band that he was willing to do nearly anything. Tozer and Gibson presented the most challenge, but it was nothing a little devious seducing couldn’t handle. As for Des Voeux, a person who believed himself to be a man of depth owing to skimming through a few textbooks, Hickey didn’t have to lift a finger. The emotional student angrily barged into their flat crying about how he was, ‘Going to pull out the chair from under Peglar’s pretentious ass and all the other snobs at the book club’ and it was in this flurry of passion that he blindly accepted Hickey’s offer without a second thought. From there it was only a matter of pulling a few favours, some more devious seducing, and not a small bit of toadying to secure tonight’s destination.   

 

Now all he had to do was keep the members of his merry band from killing each other.

 

“This outfit makes me look like an asshole,” Tozer complained and frowned at his matching black shirt and jeans, “we really have to wear this?”

 

“Are you saying you don’t always look like an asshole?” put in Gibson.

 

Before Hickey could defuse the situation Des Voeux exploded in the passenger seat. “You wouldn’t believe what Dr. Bridgens said about Poe yesterday!” he shouted at Golding who was driving the car with a stoic expression on his face. “The old fart said that Poe was, ‘Morbid and unhealthy’ and yet, ‘Distinctly American’. Now you tell me, what the hell is that supposed to mean?! Distinctly American my ass! The French loved Poe! Because they actually know what it means to have culture, Bobby, and that is the one thing they don’t have. And Bridgens had the gall to call Poe _morbid_ ? As if a dozen of pages of Achilles slaughtering people isn’t _morbid_? God Dammit Bobby! What am I to do? Oh, you missed a turn by the way.”

 

“I know,” Golding said through gritted teeth.  

 

“But what they don’t know,” Des Voeux continued his tirade, “is how fortunate they are to have me. I was good enough to show them my _Vicar of Wakefield_ imaginative exercise-not fanfiction mind you because this is the work of an English scholar -and...and anyway they said the club couldn’t read my work together because I was not a member of their club! That I had to pay a fee and formally register myself...Can you believe it? Tell me, did Lord Byron _register_ and _pay a fee_ to the Greeks when he helped fight for their independence? No! They were happy to have him while that bastard book club should have been happy to have me! Idiots...PEDANTIC IDIOTS! By the way, did you finish reading my _Vicar of Wakefield_ imaginative exercise?”

    

“Oh yeah,” Robert said and cringed, “it was...interesting...real cool stuff.” Inside however, young Robert Golding’s heart screamed. Des Voeux’s fanfiction was the most perverted and bizarre thing he’d ever read. For some reason, Des Voeux though it was necessary to include a scene where Sophia Primrose yanks off Mr. Thornhill in a pond and a dozen page long tangent where Charles Primrose compares the naked body of his middle aged wife to that of the young Celtic priestess he had just finished making hot, steamy love to inside a mud hut in the middle of nowhere for an entire chapter. And then there was the giant man eating direwolf _deus ex machina_ ….    

 

“You thought that was interesting? Just wait until you read my imaginative exercise about the Crimean War. In it Lord Lucan will be a werewolf . Get it? Lucan-Lycanthropy? Clever, eh? William Howard Russell will be the protagonist and have a passionate love affair with Florence Nightingale. You know how thousands of people died of disease? Well, I don’t want to spoil it but there will be vampires. This upcoming novel will discuss the evils of imperialism and jingoism. By the way, Harry Peglar laughed when I told him my previous incarnation was a British sailor… That dickhead! Anyway, are we there yet?”

    

Mercifully, they were indeed there and Hickey was saved from trying to restore order to the chaotic automobile, or _Ghostmobile_ as they would call it when they started filming. In the headlights he saw Magnus Manson happily jumping up and down next to two men who were the owners of _The Terror_ -an ugly, old bar located on the outskirts of town that was reputed to be haunted.

 

“Now that building really is a terror,” said Gibson who peered over Golding’s chair. “Are those actually...bars over the windows?”

 

“Why yes Billy, how else could the whalers who built that structure keep the wild animals out?” said the always irritatingly well informed Des Voeux.

 

Tozer nodded. “It actually has quite a history. I heard the whalers wintering in Mariner’s Cove built that place for shelter and that it is actually the oldest building here.”

 

“Imagine what evil happened within those walls during the long, freezing winter nights?” asked Des Voeux, his voice filled with wonder. “A perfect source of inspiration!” He took out his notebook and started madly scribbling. “Will my novel be told from the first or third person? Written in the past or present tense? Multiple points of view...yes or no?” The aspiring writer paused and frowned, tapping his pen against his lips. “Oh well, what the hell!” he cried in delight and shut his notebook. “I will do it all. A writer must take risks and subvert expectations! Isn’t that right, Bobby?”

  

Robert Golding’s face turned a deathly shade of white as he imagined what monstrosity the man in the passenger seat was going to unleash on the literate public.

 

“That’s the spirit,” Hickey said approvingly and clapped Golding on the shoulder. “Looks like you already saw a ghost, Bobby. That will look look good on camera.”  

 

They all piled out of the car and, almost instinctively, circled around Hickey who beamed up at their inquiring faces. An empty grin spread across his face.   

                     

“Open your hearts to courage, men,” he announced, “tomorrow we will be the most famous ghost hunters in all of Canada and from then on we will be going forwards, only forwards!”

 

_And I will be living it up in Hawaii_ , Hickey smiled inwardly, _With Cornelius Hickey being a distant memory…_  

 

Hickey’s little speech worked for the soon to be ghost hunters were in an excellent mood. Des Voeux rambled on about he was going to be the next great Canadian author to a smiling Golding while Gibson and Tozer actually looked like they weren’t going to strangle each other after all.   

   

Magnus Manson ran towards them, his two new friends quietly following.  


	2. Before Lockdown

_ Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. _

-Fragment from the notebook of ‘CFDV’

\---

THE TERROR. SHORTLY BEFORE LOCKDOWN. 

 

Manson nearly tripped over himself in his haste to deliver the good news. “It’s all worked out,” he said hastily, “we’re on for tonight...paid them and everything…”

 

“You have done well, Manson.” Hickey slapped him on his broad back. “Very well.” Behind, he heard Des Voeux supervising the unloading of equipment and urging the rest to be careful with it-when he wasn’t babbling about his latest imaginative disaster, Des Voeux actually managed to get plenty of work done. Now for another challenge, the two owners were quickly approaching and Hickey quickly caught up with them in the parking lot, flashing them a wide smile. “My name is Cornelius Hickey and this is Ghost Adven...Phantom Explorers!”

 

“The what?!” The owner standing on the left was a stout man with grey hair shot through with streaks of red. “I thought you told me the other guys were coming here, Tom.” 

 

“These professionals here are bigger than those yanks, Francis,” said the other man, a jovial sounding fellow with long hair. “So what channel is your crew on?” he asked Hickey.

 

Hickey did not miss a beat. “We’re not on a channel quite yet-still need to film and edit all the material before we can have show it off to the execs,” he spoke smoothly and confidently, “after that we will have a real kickass pilot episode that will, no doubt, make your fine establishment a national landmark.”

 

The long haired owner let out a long, raucous laugh. “See Francis? This is what we need to breathe some life into our fine establishment!” 

 

“People die of exposure, Tom,” Francis protested, “and I don’t even know who these people are!”

 

Des Voeux loudly cleared his throat and butted in. “You don’t know me, but you  _ will _ know me…”

 

“Shut up and go smoke a pipe!” yelled Francis, shutting down Des Voeux instantly, the younger and smaller man scuttling off somewhere. 

 

“Calm down, man!” Tom pulled Francis away from Hickey and his group and the two fell to a heated conversation out of earshot. 

 

Hickey took advantage of this interlude to take in his surroundings. It was dark out here on the edge of the municipal limits; dark conifers reared to the black sky and blocked out the stars so that the ground-a mixture of dirt and gravel-could not be seen even when he looked directly down on it, giving him a curious floating sensation. The sounds of civilized life did not penetrate here: the hum of wheels sliding across wet roads after rainfall, voices lazily drifting out of windows, the soft hum of the streetlights and the myriad noises that Hickey had become so accustomed to that he only realized they were gone upon reaching this forlorn place. Taken as a whole, this was exactly the kind of place to spur one’s imagination.  

 

But Hickey did not believe in ghosts, ghouls, monsters or Des Voeux’s gilded romanticism. What he did believe in was his own adaptability. Let other people fool themselves and bumble through life, Hickey knew who he was and, most importantly, what mattered. In this aspect he had no equal and thus allowed him to rest success on the delusions of others.          

 

The owners returned this time formally introduced themselves as Francis Crozier and Thomas Blanky who ran and operated  _ The Terror  _ together, that they (meaning Blanky) were more than happy to have them over and that they were in dire need of help. They were golden. 

 

Solomon Tozer served as the cameraman, his strong arms and delicate touch making him perfect for the role. Des Voeux ostentatiously volunteered to write the narration that would be part of the finished product and the three others would move all the stuff around. A suitable arrangement. 

 

And of course, Cornelius Hickey would lead it all.      

 

He was the first to enter the building with Thomas Blanky and immediately saw this place was indeed perfect. Dim fluorescent lights bathed the common room in a sallow, pulsating glow that was trapped within wooden walls darkened by decades of greasy smoke, body heat and accumulated filth. Hickey could smell the men. Stairs in the back of the room presumably lead to the second story of the building. Many more recent additions were present in the room too-one wall was covered in watercolors that were signed by patrons and employees, a fireplace lay in the center with a harpoon hanging over it and, sticking out rather conspicuous, was an old diving student sitting on a weathered chair.  

 

With a dramatic flourish, Hickey wheeled around in front of the camera and began his monologue. “Full body apparitions, cool spots, flying orbs, and voices emanating from the very walls-these are daily occurrences at  _ The Terror _ . Originally built as a shelter by a band of whalers wintering here in the 19th century, These decrepit walls have witnessed decades of violence, betrayal, scurvy, and deprivation that now manifests as a full scale haunting. Now on Ghost Advent-fuck...Edit that out Charley-Phantom Explorers we will unearth the secrets of this place and feel  _ The Terror… _ ”     

 

Hickey winked at Tozer and signaled him to turn the camera on an unsuspecting Blanky. “I may seem old to you but I’m not a ghost yet,” he said after finally noting the camera trained on him. 

 

“No!” hissed Robert Golding, “say something spooky.”

 

“I accidentally crossed the border once. Don’t ask me-”

 

“Supernatural!” hissed Tozer. Which was a good sign, Hickey thought, the scruffy haired reservist was finally getting involved. 

 

“Right...okay...get ready for this....Last winter I was out taking throwing out the trash out back right in the middle of a blizzard. Technically Francis was supposed to do it but he was entertaining a certain Sophia Cracroft.”

 

“Wait, you mean Mayor Franklin’s niece?” Gibson asked in surprise and shot a look at Crozier who was silently brooding in a corner.    

 

“Yeah but I don’t see what the big deal is. Taking out the garbage was an easy feat mind you with snow being up to my knees. Then all of a sudden a giant bear or a wolf came out of nowhere-”

 

Tozer frowned. “You couldn’t tell the difference?” 

 

“Look, there is no other animal in the world like this one. The wind was howling and I could hardly see past my hands but it’s eyes...dark and intelligent, like a human’s eyes… I tell you, it wasn’t of this world. One moment it was hardly more than a speck and the next it had me cornered. Now, don’t let them say old Tommy is slow on the draw; I pushed the dumpster against the wall and climbed up the rain gutter onto the roof. I nearly slipped a couple times and one of my shoes came loose-stuck on the metal-but I got up and all the same and then while I caught my breath on the roof there came crashing and a rattling and the beast was on the roof with me!”

 

“Oh no!” cried Manson. 

 

“Don’t worry, it all ends happily-at least for me. I climbed up the only thing there was left to climb-the chimney and the beastie start climbing that too! The sensible thing to do was go down but that damn chimney was tighter than-”

 

“We want this to be appropriate for all age groups, mind you,” Hickey cautioned.  

 

“Lid on a pickle a pickle jar. Only way to squeeze myself down was to take off all my clothes and throw them all over the thing’s face and that blinded it and gave me enough time to drop in on Francis and Sophia, literally and with my er...rear end smoking.”

 

Crozier moaned in despair somewhere off in the background. 

 

“Sophia was cool about the whole thing but her uncle left us a very strongly worded phone call and his wife...the less said about that the better,” Blanky sighed, “Francis wouldn’t talk to me for a couple weeks and even worse, I never saw the creature again! You know, up there on that roof I felt like we really got each other, you know? It’s not everyday something like that happens.” 

 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” replied Golding while next to him, Des Voeux scribbled madly away in his notebook and for the longest time the only sound were those opening salvoes against English literature. No one had any idea how to respond and so they stood their, shifting weight from one foot to the other, someone coughed. 

 

“I thought that was a very good story, Mr. Blanky,” said Manson.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Are we putting all that in the final cut?” Des Voeux said after putting his pen and notebook away.   

 

“Not unless you want me to start making some fucking ghosts,” growled Crozier. 

 

The entirety of the group backed away, taken aback, and Tozer even looked like he was going to say something but their leader quickly salvaged the situation. “How about you take us on a tour, Mr. Blanky,” he said pleasantly enough.

\---

Happily and enthusiastically, Blanky proceeded to show off the entire establishment except for the basement which was left unused and sealed off due to mold. “Nothing serious,” Blanky explained, “and we will have it all sorted out by the end of next week.” After showing off the common room they were lead into the kitchen which actually proved to be much more terrifying. Broad cleavers, thin yet sharp skewering knives, hooks and serrated blades hung from the walls like instruments in a medieval dungeon. The show was practically writing itself at this point. 

 

“This right here,” Blanky proudly patted an old stove like a  proud father, “is an old stove brought here by a ship’s cook.”

 

Hickey spoke quickly to the camera. “Many paranormal investigators have theorized that old objects absorb the energy of the deceased-Billy, get in the oven.” 

 

“Excuse me?” The waifish, blue eyed and curly haired assistant’s eyes widened. 

 

“We’ve gotta excite the ghosts to make them come out,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and then he lowered his voice. “Do this for me Billy, please...” Out of the camera's frame, he clasped one of his hands. 

 

Sure enough, Gibson actually crawled into the oven. 

 

“Awkward things, ovens,” observed Golding, “once burnt my eyebrows off on a portable oven while camping. Smelled awful.” 

 

“Well, this oven burnt much more than eyebrows,” Blanky said proudly, “it lit a man on fire!”

 

“WHAT!” the tight, metal walls made Gibson’s voice a sharp, tinny note. “What the fuck did this oven do?” 

 

“Winter of ‘34 I think,” Blanky frowned and stroked his chin, “Yeah, they were having a costume party and the cook’s outfit was supposedly this gaudy thing of frills and streamers and whatnot-one of those things caught flame and the poor sod went up like a roman candle.”

 

“Was he alright?” asked Manson with concern.

 

“I’m going out on a limb here but I’m going to give it a no.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Help!” Gibson, in his haste to escape the oven, had gotten his black jeans stuck on one of the hinges on the oven door. “Oh Christ, I smell something!”

 

“Oh yeah, the smell!” Blanky exclaimed as if he found a dollar someone left on the floor. “Sometimes, around midnight, while I’m down here fetching a drink, I start smelling something...Like burning flesh maybe...and then there’s screaming…” Blanky frowned and ran a hand through his hair. 

 

“Hold on!” came Gibson’s muffled voice. “What did you say?!” Fear also writ itself across the faces of the other members of Hickey’s crew. 

 

Cornelius Hickey nodded and spoke in a carefully modulated, official voice. “What you have Mr. Blanky, is a certified haunting that warrants some serious observation. Why haven’t you told us this earlier?”

 

Blanky Shrugged. “Honestly, it isn’t a big deal. Whenever the smell comes on I just spray some febreze around and those screams?” Blanky scoffed. "I just put on some headphones and play something upbeat." 

 

“This haunting is no joke, Mr Blanky,” Hickey insisted, “when a person dies violently it creates very negative energy which manifests in paranormal activity.”

 

“Most of the negative energy in the room comes from Francis. Anyway, I’m more worried about my beastie friend. Couldn’t you boys just go looking around the woods, instead?” 

 

De Voeux had up to this point been mentally constructing the plot outline of his latest imaginative exercise- _ Leviathan 2: Locked and Loaded _ . The plot began with John Locke (hence the title, he tittered to himself), Thomas Hobbes and John Dee arguing about how much power the ideal government should possess  in the Tower of London but, before they could really get into it, John Dee collapses on the floor and suffers a massive seizure! John Locke and Thomas Hobbes hurry to the fallen man and learn from the infamous occultist that he had received a psychic vision of Cornelius Agrippa-who had used alchemical science to fake his death and prolong his life-using black magic to resurrect Vlad the Impaler as a mindless, blood drinking servant. With a vast encyclopedia of arcane knowledge and an undead warrior on his side, Agrippa plans ruling all of Europe as an immortal God-King without the consent of the people-violating the social contract theory! Putting aside their differences and packing up their dueling pistols; John Locke and Thomas Hobbes pursue Agrippa across a continent wracked by war, superstition and plague-culminating a bloodcurdling and savage showdown in the mountains of Transylvania. There is also nudity. The central theme of the novel would be friendship.  

 

Des Voeux was working out the scandalous specifics of a scene where John Locke and Thomas Hobbes get kidnapped by coven of witches in Germany and have to engage in vigorous...debating...to escape, when he heard Blanky saying things more terrifying than his future assault on the English language. “Self-immolation can be a mood killer,” he remarked.                       

 

Blanky stared at him with blank look on his face. So did the others. 

 

Hickey clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention. It was like, he thought, herding a bunch of kids on a field trip. A ghost of annoyance showed on his face but quickly flitted away.“I think it’s time we go to the second story. And someone please drag Billy out.” 

 

“I think he looks in this shot,” gloated Tozer who was pointing the camera at the other man’s kicking legs. 

 

The one who finally addressed the elephant in the room, or more accurately, the jilted lover in the oven was the good natured Manson who dragged Gibson out by his feet. 

\---

“In the early 1900’s, a wealthy businessman renovated this place and turned it into a small inn…”Blanky was leading his guests down a hallway that looked much more welcoming than the room below. Still, stark, slim shadows slanted across the walls and floor, serving as stark reminders of the building’s morbid past. A man lighting himself on fire? Hickey thought, how about that? “Most of the rooms are locked up or used for storage but Francis and I sleep in those two rooms down there, on the left.”

 

“None of you are going in my room!’ barked Crozier. The sullen proprietor mostly kept to himself, even while he silently followed the group. 

 

“But feel free to take a look around mine,” Blanky said, either completely oblivious to or very used to ignoring Crozier’s outbursts. He opened his door and ushered everyone into what had to be, in Hickey’s own humble opinion, the most awfully decorated room he had ever seen. A large sheet decorated with pastel roses drowned and pooled over the sides of a small bed. Prints of vines and pictures of a younger Blanky hung crookedly all along the walls without regard to logic or order-a still jury silently judging the bed at the center of the room. In one corner sat an antiquated writing desk overflowing with papers. A pipe sat primly on top of one large stack. 

 

“Here’s the boudoir,” Blanky said and spread his arms in a grand gesture, “not much but it works for me.” 

 

As if in response, a slow tumbling noise was heard to the left and as soon as Hickey turned his head in that direction he heard a soft tapping overhead, then below and to his right. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.  _ But I still don’t believe any of this… _ He looked around saw that his acquaintances, never friends, had done likewise.     

 

Blanky laughed at their reaction. “Rats in the walls,” he said dismissively.

 

“Wouldn’t be here if you actually cleaned this mess up,” grumbled Crozier who was starting to feel unnaturally talkative this evening.   

 

“Ghosts,” Hickey corrected and gave a stern look at the camera. “Reminding us of a dark history. What do you think their trying to say, Mr. Blanky?”    

 

“To go to bed earlier, most like.”

 

‘The ghosts,’ Des Voeux scribbled in his notebook, ‘are clearly trying to say in morse code: DES VOEUX IS FUCKING AWESOME’. 

 

“When you hear this tapping,” Hickey said patiently, “do you feel off? A little bit strange?”

 

“I don’t feel strange; but now that you mention it, I’ve been possessed ten or fifteen times in this room.” 

 

Tozer whistled in appreciation, others gasped. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell us this!” for the first time Hickey lost control, “Why, man?! This is a ghost hunting show!”

 

“I didn’t want to bother you boys. I mean, being possessed is not so bad-”

 

“It’s only sleepwalking,” Crozier interrupted.

 

“I’d like it if you didn’t interrupt me, Francis. Right, where was I? Oh yeah, Francis caught me walking around my bed with my eyes closed. Sometimes I end up Francis’s bed without-”

 

“That’s enough, Thomas! That’s not going in the fucking show!”

 

Hickey cupped his face in both hands and took a deep breath, composing himself. “And why, Mr. Blanky, do you think your getting possesed?”

 

“Hmmm.” Blanky tapped his foot on the hard floor, making a hard knocking noise. “Could have something to do with the cannibalism.”

 

“Why!...You didn’t think to mention that earlier?” 

 

“Because technically it didn’t happen in this building. Local legend has it that before this place was built a gang of deserters-whether they were Yanks or Brits I don’t know-set up shop here during the winter of 1812. Now they had guns and rations but for some reason they decided that they tasted better than their hardtack. I don’t know how to say this in good taste but they...ah....ate each other.” For the first time Blanky looked genuinely troubled. He cocked his head at a series of knocks coming from the wall closest to him. “But I don’t know why. If things were so desperate they could have done some robbing or hunting, they weren’t stuck near the North Pole…”  

 

Fantastic! Hickey smiled to himself, the show was practically writing itself at this point. Desertion? War? Cannibalism? More engaging than anything any of his crew could come up with. 

 

Blanky started pacing. “I didn’t want to tell you boys this because, as a topic, cannibalism is a lot to chew on...No, that was a poor way to put it. But, you know, maybe it’s not something to do a show on...You know?”  

 

“Nonsense,” Des Voeux said, “we will handle this sensitive matter with all the due care and respect.” And there will be a Wendigo, he thought, but the less said about that the better. If that one famous Canadian director could win an Oscar with his movie about a ship filled with people sinking, then cannibalism should be trivial matter. Oh yes, not even the medium of film was safe from his grasp. Still even he knew that awards shows were all nonsense. Especially those blighted Emmys.  

 

Hickey spoke in the same vein, “The ghosts are restless. I wouldn’t be surprised if all this paranormal activity can be traced back to that dark winter of 1812.” He spread his hands in a wide gesture that encompassed the entire room. “The knocking, your possessions-”

 

“He’s just bloody sleepwalking,” complained Crozier. 

 

“Your possessions,” Hickey continued, “are the ghosts trying to tell us something. A mystery is ingrained into the very fabric of this place, invincible but as strong and firm as this building’s foundations; the only way to put these spirits at rest is to uncover what lies within these...ancient partitions!” 

 

“Old walls sounds better,” Golding recommended. 

 

“‘Old’? Such a boring word. How about ‘antiquated walls’?” Des Voeux scribbled away in his notebook without waiting to hear any feedback. 

 

“Crumbling walls,” Tozer said confidently. 

 

“I was about to say that,” Gibson said and touched Hickey’s arm. “He stole my idea!” he hissed. 

 

“Good lord!” cried Crozier. “Decrepit walls! Who are you people? Haven’t you done this before?”

 

“You can’t rush greatness,” Hickey said dismissively. “So Mr. Blanky, your bar is home to a self-immolation, a monster, odd noises, possession and cannibalism. Is there anything you might care to add before we begin our investigation?”

 

Blanky gave Crozier a furtive glance but his co-proprietor had gone off to brood somewhere else. “You think Francis is mad at me?” he whispered, “sometimes I think we were happier in the Coast Guard. I thought opening this place would bring us closer together but now, I hate to admit it, I’m starting to feel closer to that beastie out in the woods.” 

 

Manson looked like he was about to cry and Hickey grew too aware of his two former lovers looking intently at him. “Your emotional state is no doubt empowering the negative energies here. You and Mr. Crozier need to spend the night back in civilization, enjoying yourselves. When you come back tomorrow morning to open  _ The Terror _ it won’t be so terrible at all.”

 

Blanky gave him a wolfish grin. “Now that you mention it, Crozier’s will be bringing me along to meet a certain Fitzjames from his school days tonight. It’s supposed to be a reunion, but I know what it really is.” He blinked at Hickey and laughed. “Well, that’s all there is for it. If you boy are ready I’ll be happy to lock you all in!”

A great roar made the books on Blanky’s dusty shelves vibrate and all but made the mysterious tappins inaudible-and not so frightening. Crozier barged through the doorway and thrust an accusing finger at Blanky. “You did not say a damn thing about them spending the night. Their dressed like robbers for Christ’s sake!” 

 

“It’s alright Francis,” Blanky said, unperturbed, “they’ll be locked in all night so it’s not like their going to run off with everything. Also you have to remember, these boys are professionals.” 

 

Crozier’s heavy breathing stopped and a mad grin spread across his face. “Of course, professionals. I’ll roll out the welcoming mat for them.” With that he spun on his heel and made himself scarce, his heavy footsteps sounding off down the stairs. 

\---

The rest of the equipment was moved in thanks in no small part to Manson’s impressive strength. A little control room complete with a laptop, speakers and some extra cameras (which were unwittingly donated by a certain Mr. Hodgson) was set up behind the bar. Hickey pranced about the common room, his arms tightly crossed across his chest and forehead inclined a little bit forwards; his perennial grin was plastered on his face. What had once been skepticism now started to be replaced by something different. Not belief-Hickey only believed he directly observed-but a kind of appreciation. A vaguely defined force was at work and while it may not be supernatural, Hickey would be a fool to ignore it. Great things were afoot and Hickey sought to master it. That’s how life is, he reflected, you are either the top or the bottom. In every situation you must stab the bastard before he stabs you. 

 

“Well you boys have fun,” Blanky laughed. “Francis and I are about to have a pleasant evening at Applebees!”

 

Hickey gave an absent minded nod and snorted in amusement when he saw Gibson and Tozer blushing; no doubt remembering their rendezvous with Hickey in the bathrooms of that fine establishment. “And we’ll have our own exciting evening,” he said. 

 

“I don’t doubt,” said Crozier as he passed through the doorway and into the night. Blanky followed and the door slammed shut, the hinge squeaking as the heavy, gnarled slab of wood serving a door closed. A metal jingly could be heard and was soon followed by the heavy falling sound of the lock’s tumblers falling into place. The investigators, without knowing it, held their breaths during their process and only let them out once the footsteps outside finally receded into nothingness and the only sound to be heard was that of their own, slow but steady, breathing. 

 

Hickey clapped his hands and turned to his fellow investigators who had subconsciously lined up in a row behind him. Hickey smiled at their malleability and the poor fools he had roped into this scheme smiled back, not comprehending in the slightest what was on the short, ginger haired man’s mind.        

 

“Now,” Hickey announced in a voice that was larger than his actual person, “our investigation begins.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition ends and scary times start. Time to see what's haunting Blanky. 
> 
> Also, the Emmys can go to hell. I typed up a long rant about how I felt and maybe I will put it up somewhere. I don’t know. The Emmys constantly snubbing It’s Always Sunny was one thing but their exclusion of The Terror is unbelievable. Cornelius Hickey, as depicted by Adam Nagaitis, showed that a television character can be so much more than a flimsy mask worn by an actor. 
> 
> Hickey is not some edgy, giggling, sexually deviant, moustache-twirling bad guy like so many antagonists that show up on TV (that show about the uncomfy chair in particular is full of this type). Hickey calculates, ingratiates, subtly prods those around him in the right directions, but when he strikes the result is decisive and deadly-drastically altering the course of events. But Hickey is not a madman whose actions only serve to provide shock value to the viewer. There is a very cold, detached reasoning behind what Hickey does. He carries this sort of grin/smile/smirk but when he is alone his face goes slack-Hickey’s first interaction with Crozier best illustrates this-and you see him contemplating. This is where we see Hickey being really genuine. But what is going through his mind, exactly? The thoughts being tossed around in his head can be surmised, but ultimately his exact reasoning remains opaque. Even the emotions he displays can be misleading; he smiles, touches, flatters, and compliments but does he ever laugh or shout? When does the act end and the authenticity begin? He raises his voice in an argument with Crozier before his punishment and he has a wonderful outburst in the final episode, but in a way this only raises more questions about his train of thought and motives. 
> 
> Much is left to the viewer’s imagination and many aspects of Hickey’s character can be argued over, such as what the initials of his real name stand for. It is this subtlety that is missing in so many shows nowadays. Already I am feeling tempted to put down a lot more but this isn’t a blog. Can you even do essays on this site? There is just so much to say about this show, the setting and all the characters in it. I love historical fiction, horror and the book (except for some of the sections in it. You know what I'm talking about. Also the psychic Crozier ending completely through me off and I couldn't get through it the first time. I'm doing a reread now). So this show was just perfect for me What can be said right now though, is that Adam Nagaitis has been criminally overlooked (along with the rest of the cast) and it all goes to show that there is at least two things wrong with the Television Academy's title.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Camilla: You, sir, should unmask._

_Stranger: Indeed?_

_Cassilda: Indeed it’s time. We all have laid aside disguise but you._

_Stranger: I wear no mask._

_Camilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!_

-Fragment from the notebook of ‘CFDV’

 

LOCKDOWN 12:00AM.

 

First things first, there was no way they were all going to do this sober. Tables were bumped into and chairs nearly flipped over in the dark as the investigators dashed to the bar.

 

“Lights!” Golding called and swore when a massive shape pushed him aside. “Magnus!”

 

“Sorry,” Magnus huffed and lifted Golding back to his feet. “You know I need a drop.”

 

“The usual?” Golding asked.

 

“Yeah.” Manson licked his lips, not seeing the look of disgust on Golding’s face. His large roommate's drinking habits could only be described as strange. Manson enjoyed ruining strong spirits by mixing them with water; explaining to everyone that it was how, ‘they did back in the day’ and therefore his diluted drinks were naturally the best way to go. “Can I turn on the lights, Cornelius?”

 

“No, let your eyes adjust to the dark,” Hickey said from behind the bar. Creeping through the darkened room was easy and had reminded him of all the times he crept through their flat in the middle of the night so he could watch his roomates sleep because that was a totally normal thing to do. With a smooth grace developed over the course of years, Hickey ignores the bottles on the shelf-knowing that their only for display-and feels with his fingers the liquor cabinets’ lock. Easy. Without hesitation and ignoring the sound of his mates crashing into each other, Hickey brushed his fingers across the floor until they slid over a worn mat. Too easy. He found the key placed neatly under the mat and fitted it into the cabinets’ lock, an exact fit. “Watch and be amazed,” he called behind him and opened the door with a flourish.

 

“Cornelius?” came Gibson’s tentative voice. “Are you their?”

 

“Billy.” Hickey’s voice sounds oddly strangled. “Flashlight, please...now…”

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“I said now.”

 

Hickey accepts the flashlight with numb hands and shines its’ light on the paper that was found in the empty cabinet. “It’s a message.”

 

“A ghost wrote it,” cried Manson in glee. “You have to read it!”

 

Hickey read aloud the following message:

 

_To Whom it May Concern,_

_Congratulations! If your reading this you found the key under the mat and opened the Terror’s liquor cabinet. However, considering how drinking can be a nasty habit, I have taken the liberty of emptying this cabinet-and indeed the entire bar-of alcoholic beverages. Also to help you avoid the influence of temptation and greed, I have taken the liberty of removing the cash box from the premises. I hope you understand. To make up for any hurt feelings I was sure to to leave behind some lemons, limes and oranges which you will find wrapped in a newspaper farther back in the cabinet you just opened. Don’t want you to catch scurvy now. Thank you for your time and I hope all your future endeavors meet with success!_

_With love xoxoxoxoxoxo,_

_Francis Moira Rawdon Crozier_

_PS. I bet it’s you reading this, you little bony gnome bastard._ (Hickey did not read aloud this final part :*)

_PPS. And whatever you do, stay out of my room!_

 

For the first time in a long time Hickey nearly lost his composure. He tore the sheet to shreds and tossed them up in the air. “Here's a midnights snack,” he said acidly and threw the package of citrus fruits on the bar table.

 

“My name’s better,” muttered Des Voeux to himself, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I have a good, Huguenot name.”

 

“Are we really going to catch scurvy?” Manson loudly munched on a lime. “I don’t want scurvy,” Cornelius.

 

“Nobodies catching scurvy,” Hickey loudly exhaled and straightened up, he took out an e-cig and started vaping angrily. “This doesn’t mean the spirits aren’t with us tonight, we gotta provoke them, make them come to us.”

 

“And how do we do that?” Tozer asked from his perch on the bartop, his arms crossed. No doubt simmering over current events.    

 

“It is well known that ghosts are attracted to negative energy. If release some of it into the air the ghosts will be attracted like moths to a flame.” Hickey had everyone stand together in a circle and ordered Tozer to pan the camera around on everyone's’ faces. “Dark forces are attracted to dark feelings,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “If any of you are holding secrets, now’s the time to admit them. Billy, turn on the EVP recorder.”

 

Purchased with Hodgson’s, their landlords’, borrowed credit card. This device was supposedly able to record electronic voice phenomena. Hickey did not know about that but it didn’t matter. All he had to do was record something, anything, and pass it off as supernatural. Hickey held out towards the middle of the circle and turned it on. “Anyone wants to start?”

 

Des Voeux cleared his throat. “This is really upsetting to say but…” he took a deep breath, “I didn’t know how to spell my last name until I was in the fourth grade.”

 

“Only the fourth?” Manson asked in amazement.

 

Hickey, the grim, short red haired inquisitor faced Magnus Manson. “And do you have anything you wish to confess?”

 

Even in the dark Hickey could make out Manson gulping and looking to and fro at the faces around him. “Um.”

 

“Spit it out, Magnus.” Golding insisted. “For the show.”

 

“I...I...uh…”

 

The others craned their necks forward, wanting to know what kind of deeds this seemingly gentle and innocent man might hide. Many of them drew the worst of conclusions.

 

“I… Illegally download movies off the internet using Solomon’s laptop. Their, I said it! Don’t lock me up!” Manson clasped his hands together, looking pleadingly at his wronged roomate. “I wouldn’t download a car!”

 

If Tozer was annoyed he didn’t show it.“My laptops been acting up recently, getting all these weird pop ups. Did you mess it up?” he asked patiently. “Come on, Magnus, no one’s going to jail.”

 

“I gave you a virus,” Gibson blurted out. “A computer virus that is.”

 

“So ruining my relationships was not enough? You had to screw up my computer too?” Tozer stomps toward Gibson until his face is just a breath away from his.

 

“Nothing like that! It was an accident!” Golding explained. Now he stood on the stand, his peers a jury that now examined him with an acute interest.  

 

“And how do you know that?” Hickey’s voice is quiet, nearly a whisper. For a few seconds the only sound is the soft hum of the recording device.

 

“Well, Billy and I watch videos together. Adult videos, and we’ve been doing it for a...for a while now while you were at work. We didn’t know we’d get a virus,” Golding explains while wringing his hands helplessly.  

 

“Technically, it wasn’t their fault though,” noted Des Voeux.

 

Tozer spun on his heel to face the pale, thin faced student. “Your in on this too!”

 

“Nothing like that,” Des Voeux said and backed away, raising his hands. “I’m not with them when they do it. I just hide in your closet and watch them use your laptop.” He started shaking his hands wildly, raising his voice, dark eyes growing larger. “But it’s for artistic inspiration! I incorporate it into my work! I swear! I’m not like that...”  

 

Tozer covered his face in his palms. “So who gave me the goddamn virus?” he said slowly, clearly enunciating each word.

 

“What happens in here stays in here, right?”

 

“Spit it out, Charlie.”  

 

Des Voeux took a deep breath and gave Golding and Gibson an apologetic glance. “You remember when Hodgson took away our internet last month because we didn’t pay the rent? Well John Irving, the youth pastor from my college who lives next door, had wifi without a password on it…”

 

“You did not,” gasped Tozer. “Oh my fucking God.”

 

“God had nothing to do with this,” noted Des Voeux.

 

“We did,” Gibson admitted. “And Irving somehow found out about it and came over while you and Cornelius were gone. We panicked! We didn’t know what to do. We told Irving that we were looking up mountain climbing when we got tricked into clicking on a porn link! Irving wanted to fix the computer but he just started clicking on all the dirty stuff because he wanted to ‘better show us the nature of sin’ and next thing we knew he downloaded a virus!”

 

“He told us we needed Christ and left after that,” finished Golding.

 

Hickey nodded. He wasn’t surprised, John Irving had been giving him odd looks whenever they crossed paths and once had even offered to take up residence in his flat so he could ‘conduct a special mission’ in his words. Hickey figured it was a bit late for that, though.

 

“Chshchshchshchsh,” went of the EVP.

 

“Hush.” Hickey held a finger to his lips. “The spirits are trying to tell us something!”

 

“Chshchshchshchshupchshchshsteerschshchshdowchschschsbechlow.”

 

Golding frowned. “Up, steers?”

 

Hickey snapped his fingers. “Upstairs, down below! Good job everyone, all...this...has attracted the ghosts’ attention. We’ll split up.” Hickey pointed at Manson, Golding and Des Voeux. “You two will stay down here and investigate while Solomon, Billy and I will go upstairs.”

 

“And how are we going to do that?” Des Voeux sat on a table and wrung his hands in frustration. He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the dark, his pale face a blurred white spot bobbing up and down in the air.   

 

Do I have to to everything around here? This was meant to be so simple, so easy, perhaps it was a mistake bringing everyone here. They lack my drive, Hickey saw that clearly now, they are entirely devoid of ambition. This was probably just a bit of a lark for all of them. “You must take this to the next level-summon an apparition. Place the cameras around, turn on the laptop and be patient. There is plenty of energy around here that you can use to your advantage,” he said and with that he barged up the stairs with Gibson and Tozer in tow.

 

“Are you allowed up their?” called Golding. “I mean, if Crozer finds out…”

 

“Bugger ‘em.” Hickey vanished up the staircase.

 

“Well, we won’t be seeing them anytime soon.” Des Voeux shrugged and eyed a white the white tablecloth under him. “Magnus, come here. I have an idea.”

\---

“What are you doing now?” growled Tozer.

 

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to summon an apparition.” Hickey opened the door to Blanky’s bedroom and stood aside, bowing to his audience. “Right this way, if you please.”

 

Sure enough, Gibson walked right on through. Tozer eyed the still bowing Hickey with obvious disdain. “Fame and wonder awaits beyond this portal,” Hickey insisted. “Don’t be afraid.”

 

That touched a nerve, as Hickey knew it would. Tall and well built; with hazel hair, bright eyes and an inquisitive face-Tozer’s very appearance exuded and dripped with pride. He wouldn’t back down, it wasn’t even an option for him. Sullenly, his shoulders stooped, Tozer stepped through doorway and into a realm of countless possibility. Alone in the hallway, Hickey nods to himself before retreating after his guests and closing the door firmly behind him.

 

Inside the so called boudoir they were forced to adjust their eyes to the darkness all over again. Hickey nimbly moved past the two and hopped on Blanky’s mattress. “I am feeling vibrations,” Hickey even made his voice waver up and down in pitch, “you guys need to get on the bed...to feel the vibrations with me.” Every sense of perception was heightened to an incredible degree. He felt Gibson, slowly and hesitantly; and Tozer, quickly and with purpose; move towards him. “Come on now, their not going to be here forever.”

 

The mattress under Hickey dropped slightly as Gibson laid down on his left; and he almost flew off when Tozer flung himself on to his right. Perfect. “Are you feeling them now?” he whispered to them.

 

“I don’t feel anything, Cornelius,” Gibson whined.

 

“Just wait for it. You must...open yourselves to the spirits.” Hickey took both of their hands in his own and rested them on his chest. “Here, you can feel them through me.” From then on he measured time by the pulses he felt in their wrists, the sound of their breaths and how they stirred on uneasily on the sheets. Deja vu overwhelmed him, but only briefly. These clandestine meetings in the night were so familiar; Hickey sneaking out of Gibson’s Room to go to Tozer’s and back to Gibson’s again all in the span of the same night. Two at once though? Now that was special. He squeezed their hands and placed them over his heart. “The vibrations are going away!” he hissed. “I feel it, don’t you?”

 

“I feel like taking a nap,” grumbled Tozer.

 

“We must bring them back,” Hickey said, taking out the EVP device, “and this will tell us how.” He turned it on and listened to it hum to life. “Chchchchchchchchch.”

 

“Damn it,” Tozer grunted, sleep was overcoming him but the loud device jerked him back to a very unpleasant reality. “Turn that thing off.”

 

“Hush. The ghosts are attracted to our energy. The EVP will tell us what they want. Now, listen closely.”

 

“Chchchchchchetherdchchchchch.”

 

“Either? Ether?” Gibson questioned the shadows around him. “Effort?”

  
  


“Hush! The device said ‘together’. The spirits want us to be together.” Hickey let go of their hands and put his arms around their shoulders. “I know things haven’t been going well between us lately.”

 

“That's a bit of an understatement.” Tozer batted Hickey’s hand away from his beard and brushed his lips against the (quite literally) middleman’s ears. “Things were over between you and Billy. Now look at what's happened...Billy hates me now. I don’t understand.”

 

Hickey pressed both his fingers to their lips. “Quiet now. I know your both mad at eachother, and for what? Just because you both happen to like me? How silly. None of you are my wives, aren’t you? No, we’re men, positive energy generating men with me serving as the focal point of it all.” Now he lifted his fingers off. “And the spirits are hungering for that energy.” As if in agreement, a series of knocks resounded off the walls.

 

“How...how do we generate this energy?” Gibson asked in trembling voice. Tozer did not say anything; the only sign he was listening his tightening grip on Hickey’s wrist. The knocks turned into a loud banging.

 

“Where does it say that a man must be completely beholden to another? Only fools like our neighbor believes in such nonsense while we, we are free spirits and the ghosts want us to express that.”

 

“Chchchchchchfreesumchchchchchch.”

 

“Threesome!” Hickey declared. “The lonely souls of this haunted place desire human warmth. Imagine, those whalers spent their time here during the freezing winters, huddling for warmth and burning whatever they could find. Sometimes it was not enough, and the lost souls have been alone here for more than a century. We should, no, we must give them the warm energy they’ve been deprived of for so long.”

 

“By banging each other,” deadpanned Tozer.

 

“I mean...yeah.”

 

“I’m not doing this for Solomon,” said Gibson stubbornly. “But if this it what it takes to get the ghosts to come out....”

 

“I don’t believe in ‘em,” Tozer huffed. “But if it’s for the show…”

 

Cornelius Hickey’s smile was so large that it risked breaking his face in two. Luring two, handsome men to another person’s bed in a dingy bar and taking both of them was truly a hickeyesque achievement. He had done many things of note during his years on Earth-shoving bags of weed into the gutted remains of fish at a seafood packing plant as part of a smuggling scheme; making off with a golden ring at an open casket funeral; dressing Henry Collins up as a giant hedgehog and trying to convince that biology student Goodsir that the large and hairy man was a cryptid; illegally breeding red-eared slider turtles in the bathtub… This though, this had to be his finest achievement. One he would treasure during the long flight to Hawaii or to someplace far off in the East. Maybe he would bring one of them with him… So many possibilities! So much freedom! Hickey did not desire money, power, or a higher station in life. All he wanted was the ability to live without limits; to frolic, travel, bang, and to reinvent himself whenever he felt the desire to do so.

 

Hickey kicked off his flip flops and started undoing the zipper on his black jorts. “Turn off that camera.” He took a final celebratory puff on his e-cigarette. “There’ll be plenty of activity afterwards.”

 

Circumstances proved Hickey to be wrong on this last point. Before Hickey could turn Blanky’s floral patterned bed into a veritable sexual energy power plant a loud boom from downstairs sent all three of them jumping off the bed, loudly swearing and fumbling for their clothes. Tozer and Gibson ran out off the room, leaving Hickey all alone but not disappointed. He was not disappointed in the least. He slowly shook his head, a rueful grin on his.

 

If you don’t succeed at first, then try again, he thought. He quietly closed the door on his way out and paused in the hallway. He remembered it clearly, the knocking had stopped exactly when they heard the crash. Was that normal rat behavior, if they really did infest the walls?

 

Still grinning, Hickey carefully navigated the stairs in the dark.

\---

“With Cornelius’ absence, the burden of command naturally falls to me,” Des Voeux addressed his audience, “and I will not wait for an apparition to appear. We must take matters into our own hands.” Des Voeux’s dark eyes bulged from their sockets and his whole body shuddered-as if his lean frame could scarcely contain the wild passions within-his long limbs shaking, as often happened whenever he grew excited over one of his newly devised ideas. A grotesque sight hidden under a shadow as thick as a tapestry. He pushed himself off the table, gathering the tablecloth in his hands and bringing it behind the bar.

 

Manson followed and said pleadingly, “We’re not going to fake an apparition are we, Charlie?”

 

“Of course not. This is only a dramatization. A recreation of something that might have or will happen,” Des Voeux patiently answered. Just like how in his upcoming epic concerning the War of 1812, the White House will be burned down by President James Madison as part of an insurance scam. It may be ridiculous but as far of the reader was concerned it was real. That was the trick; making the reader believe, and the same could be said about the medium of television as far as he was concerned.

 

He found the scissors after a few moments and, using his the flashlight app on his phone, he cut out two holes in the sheet. “Right, try this on,” he told Manson. Des Voeux was a quick witted creature, a trait that only showed itself under the right conditions. While Manson fitted on the sheet, Des Voeux went around placing small, portable cameras in various strategic locations; making sure they were all set to nightvision and facing the center of the common room. Once this was accomplished, he turned on the laptop bought with his landlord’s money and made sure the camera’s were wirelessly linked to the device. Opening the appropriate program, he could see all the camera’s screens facing the room’s center from different points of view. “Out of the way, Bobby. To the right, a little more, done. We’re golden. You got it on, Manson?”

 

“I can’t see.”

 

“That’s a good thing! It means your sense of hearing will increase. Listen to my voice.” Des Voeux turned to Golding who was cowering in a corner. “You! You’ll dress up as a whaler person of the nineteenth century. Now, sailors back then wore...pants, shirts? Shirts and maybe a coat, of the old variety of course. They also wore those rags around to their necks because they were too poor to wear ties. You wait right their.”

 

Where the hell was he going to get the right clothes? Des Voeux bounded up the stairs; tiptoed past Blanky’s room where he heard the creepy knocking and Hickey’s persistent voice (Des Voeux would have pressed his ear against the door and listened if he had the time, like he had so often done); and halted before the door of Crozier’s room. Their had to be clothes in their. He paused, his hand on the door handle. If the foul tempered proprietor found out about this there would be a very high chance of Des Voeux’s man parts being separated from his body.  Des Voeux weighed the risks and came to the conclusion that as long as everything was returned, he’d get away with it. Anyhow, why was he scared of some boomer? Des Voeux slowly creaked the door open and slipped inside.

 

It took a few minutes to adjust himself to the dark. His vision clearing, he saw that Crozier’s room was the exact opposite of Blanky’s-sparsely furnished, little to no decorations, and very few signs that the bedroom was even used. What the room did not lack in, however, were books. So many of them haphazardly jammed in shelves or piled ontop the dresser and desk. Des Voeux instinctively began inspecting the titles, holding his phone close to the binding, he carefully adjusted the books so that they stood or rested more neatly in relation to one another. There was plenty of naval fiction-all Alexander Kent, Patrick O’Brien, Herman Melville and C.S Forester. Among other things, there was a sprinkling of non-fiction; most notably a rather nice edition of the _Book of Leviathan_. Overall, Francis Crozier had surprisingly good taste. Not as good as Des Voeux’s though, but close.

 

He heard a thud behind him.

 

Des Voeux wheeled around, his mind racing wildly. Was it a trap? Had he set off an alarm? It wasn’t like he was robbing the man! All he wanted was some fucking period appropriate attire! Struggling to focus the beam of his phone’s flashlight, he saw that it was nothing of the sort. He turned the light off, took a deep breath, and stooped over to pick up the object.

 

It was a platypus. A stuffed animal platypus the kind one would find at a zoo’s gift shop. It must have been perched on top of the shelf and fell down after he disturbed some of the books. “You gave me a bit of a scare, little guy,” Des Voeux murmured. “Now where did you come from?” He rolled the toy around in his hands, frowning. If he didn’t put it back in the right place and Crozier found out, there’d be hell to pay. Still, that wasn’t what bothered him. There was something about it he couldn’t put his finger on… He shrugged and, standing on tiptoes, placed it ontop the shelf nearest to him. That ought to do it. Now to get back on task, he reminded himself.

 

Moonlight filtered weakly through a single, barred window in the room. Des Voeux followed those scarce beams and found that an old, rectangular chest right under the glass. As good a place to start as any… Des Voeux wiped the dust off the lid, briefly watching the motes dance in the still air, and opened it. How convenient! Inside was a treasure trove of clothing: grimy striped shirts, high waisted pants and knitted socks. Not 19th century material but it looked part, nevertheless. Des Voeux took out a few select articles he figured would fit on Golding and closed the lid, pausing as he did so. Dust. Dust lay on the chest and on the older books that weren’t recently read…

 

There was no dust on the platypus. Unless Francis Crozier, a foul tempered and older man, had played around with the thing… Des Voeux tittered at that image and got to his feet. He hugged the clothes to his chest and turned around.

 

And saw the platypus standing on the bed, it’s glass eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

 

Des Voeux jammed the smelly clothes in his mouth to suppress a scream. Charles Frederick Des Voeux never believed in ghosts until he came face to face face to face with one in the form of...this! There was no other explanation, Des Voeux had seen the bed and their was no animal there before, it was empty like the rest of the room! He had to get Tozer in here with the camera, but he wouldn’t believe him, not unless he could prove that this thing was haunted.

 

He took half steps towards the cursed object, his bundle of clothes gripped tightly by white knuckles. He sidestepped to the left, and then to the right, but couldn’t avoid the platypus’ baleful eyes. The thing had undergone a transformation since he had seen it last. What was once so innocent, so harmless, now was giving him some seriously bad vibes. _Negative energy,_ he realized, like what Cornelius was talking about. Overcoming his fear, he rushed over and grabbed the platypus with a free hand. It did not feel different, nor weighed heavier or lighter. Just the same stuffed platypus and yet his newfound knowledge of what it had to be made him recoil from it’s fuzzy touch. Hickey was right, bugger what Crozier thought. Des Voeux tossed the thing at a random shelf and hurried to the door.

 

He heard pattering behind him. He stopped and wheeled around, finding the platypus still on the floor, close to him. _It must have been right on my heels_ … He tossed the clothes into the hallway and gripped the thing again, bringing it to the bed and resting it on the sheets. “What the hell are you?!” demanded Des Voeux in his best ghost advent-phantom explorer voice, “show yourself!”

 

It blinked, or maybe it was a trick of the light...In his frantic state Des Voeux had a hard time distinguishing what existed in reality and what was just a figment of his anxiety ridden nerves. His mind raced at a feverous pace, taking into account all the things he learned from that show Manson was obsessed with. How could an inanimate object become so cursed? Negative energy. So the crux of the issue was how the negative energy got transmitted into the said object. A sense of dread overwhelmed him and his lean frame sagged beneath the emotion’s weight.

 

Des Voeux took out a nickel and examined it’s date: 1999. Now, if he remembered the episode correctly, all he had to do was flip the coin and some kind of ghostly activity would occur because ghosts didn’t like metal? Something like that. He tossed it up, saw it weakly glint once in mid air, and land right in front of the thing’s bill. Des Voeux gasped when he saw the coin. It had landed in a way so that the date read: 6661. 666! Reinforcing this blasphemous revelation were three sharp bangs from the ceiling-three, mocking the trinity! Des Voeux’s breath came in ragged rasps. The platypus was possessed by a demon! Blanky had said that he thought most of the negative energy came from Crozier, so that energy emanating from him must have attached itself to the platypus and attracted a demon-it was the only rational explanation.

 

What secret is Crozier hiding? Des Voeux thought, what horrible thing happened to him that caused him to be such a vile power source? Did he kill a guy and hide his body under the floorboards? Had his doomed courtship of Franklin’s niece ended in violence? Romantic notions filled his head. A secret lay in here, a long dormant mystery, that he was going to solve. Des Voeux carefully placed the platypus in the clothing chest; taking out some rags and tying them around the chest so the lid was forced shut. After satisfying himself that the demon couldn’t get out; he made the sign of the cross before taking the chest with him downstairs.

  

He only paused once on his way back, outside Blanky’s room, where the very walls seemed to be rattling underneath unseen blows.

\---

“Are you out of your damned mind?!” yelled Tozer. “This is bad, even for you, Charlie.”

 

“Mind my circle!” Des Voeux shouted back. He sat on his chest in the middle of circle made of green, lime peels. To make room for his spot, Des Voeux and the others in the common room had pushed all the tables and chairs in the common room against the walls. Old candles they had found tucked away were lit and placed on the bar, their wax already dripping over the sides. “I just got attacked by a demon, sorry if I can’t make sense right now.”

 

“Ghosts? Ghosts!” loudly agreed a tablecloth covered Manson from where he was trapped by the shattered remains of the door leading to the basement. Golding was on his knees next to him, doing his best to extricate his friend from the wreckage. Gibson moved to help only to trip on a fork that was stabbed in the floor. Hickey grabbed and helped the gangly man up.

 

“Forks are a symbol of empowerment, they’ll help contain the dem-”

 

“Get the forks out of the fucking floor you goddamn madman!” Tozer roared.

 

Des Voeux meekly slipped out of the circle and crawled around on the floor, gathering the forks. “A platypus, a demon possessed platypus attacked me upstairs. And, and, and… And Crozier is so pissed all the time because he must be holding a dark secret, right? So I made the circle and told Magnus to look around for clues and but he kept his ghost costume on so he got confused and stumbled onto the basement door; and, and, and, and…”

 

“Why do you smell like lime juice?”

 

“I baptised myself in citrus to protect my eternal soul!”  

 

“Keep filming, Solomon,” Hickey hushed down a protest from the tall man, “this is fantastic material.” Indeed, it was. The foolish student was truly exceeding expectations. Hickey had always pegged Des Voeux as a bore; another small town community college student with delusions of grandeur. Who would of thought he was capable of this? What looked to be a debacle was really a clear win, and Hickey felt he needed to press his advantage. “How about you help Manson out,” Hickey softly urged Des Voeux when he had finished gathering the forks.  

 

Now what, Hickey thought, was Blanky saying about those deserters who resorted to cannibalism? Oh yes, he wasn’t sure why they ate each other when robbery or hunting were options. And now Des Voeux was complaining of a demon…Hickey smiled when he made the connection. Hickey leaped in front of the camera and spun an elaborate (and convincing) tale of demonic influence cannibalism; a centuries old evil that survived to the present day and now haunted this creepy establishment. Doing so made Hickey realize he missed his life’s calling as a showman. It was all so easy to him, his audience ate up all the nonsense and looked to him for guidance. Now this, this was what Hickey desired. He’d sell the footage, take the money, and run to someplace where he could begin anew with a new audience. He’d miss Gibson and Tozer, but that would only be a small price to pay.

 

“It seems to me that our next step is to check the storage rooms upstairs, and maybe the attic,” said Golding.

 

“Nope,” Hickey quickly dismissed that notion. “We must go deeper. Manson must have fell through that basement door for a reason…”

 

“But Mr. Blanky told us about the mold,” Golding said nervously. “I don’t think that's a good idea.”

 

“And Mr. Blanky’s getting possessed. He’s under demonic influence, he doesn’t know what's good for him,” Hickey paused and allowed his point to sink in. “We need to help him, whatever the cost.”

 

It was in this fashion that he won them over.

\---

 

One by one they descended into the gaping, cavernous mouth that Manson’s weight had created. Like so many mourners, this oddly appropriately dressed funerary band  moved slowly with an air of solemn reverence that is only held for the unseen. Like divers sinking down into a deeper chasm within an ocean; shadows more thick than anything they saw topside enveloped them, their stifling presence suffocating them under its weight. They did not mention this strange sensation aloud nor acknowledge it themselves; as far as matters were concerned it was the possible existence of mold that so bothered them.

 

Phantoms greeted them downstairs: silent, white, wrinkled, dust covered, amorphous shapes that surrounded them on all sides-pinning them in. Every one of them recoiled from these specters’ indiscernible faces, all except for Hickey who served as their vanguard. “It’s only furniture, boys,” he told them over his shoulder.

 

Indeed, it was so. With a flourish, Hickey swept away an aged blanket and revealed a table covered in cobweb covered candelabras. “Not that old, when you consider the grand scheme of things,” he observed, picking up one of the antiques and examining it (Hickey always had an eye for household decorations, especially when they were not his) before putting it down. “Must date back to the time when this place was an inn.”

 

Following Hickey’s example, his followers quietly fanned out and began to methodically lift the heavy covers. Much was revealed: more tables and candelabras; chairs with arms carved in the shapes of snarling lions; towering wardrobes with voluminous interiors; ebony dressers; empty, ornate frames whose chips of gilded wood stuck to their hands. Despite their lustre having long since faded, these antiques reflected a certain decayed majesty so often found in ancient ruins or long abandoned estates.

 

All of this dusty fuel was instantly consumed by the fuel of Des Vouex’s imagination. No sooner had he thrown off one cover-initiating a chorus of all manner of coughing and hacking around him-than he moved onto another. A trail of white sheets, now yellow with age, marked his frantic progress. Moving to the outer ring of forgotten things he discovered what amazed him the most, himself, or rather his clouded reflection in a somewhat stained mirror. Working his way around the basement, he found his face reflected by dozens of mirrors, so many of them! All lining the outer limits of the basement and facing inwards, reflecting the dim light coming from the center of the basement in the form of a flashlight lying on a footrest. Des Voeux was spellbound, marvelling at how none of them, absolutely none of them, were marred by any cracks on their surfaces. Why on earth were there so many of them? Their defiance of explanation made it all the more wondrous. So fascinated was he, that he forgot about the demon upstairs. “It’s amazing...Can you believe it Cornelius?”

 

What was their to believe? All Hickey saw was a whole bunch of fucking mirrors standing around and collecting dust. Stepping beyond the mirror’s with his phone’s flashlight on, he walked the perimeter of the basement, abruptly coming to a halt and nearly tripping over near the right wall’s corner. Training his light downwards, he found a badly worn chest that reached up to his knees that, upon closer examination, proved to be much older than anything else in the vicinity.

 

It’s contents proved to be more intriguing.

 

Costumes. All their colors faded and the ones on the bottom being rags that crumbled to dust in his hands, but costumes nonetheless. Bells on the tip toes of a jester’s shoes twinkled weakly at him. Dropping to his knees and wrinkling his nose at the musty smell; he pulled out the costumes and made a neat pile next to him. Recalling what Blanky said about the cook and his fiery demise, he quickly formed a new course of action. Hickey had long since admitted to himself that he suffered from various shortcomings, but a lack of adaptability was not one of them.

 

“Now just take a look at this,” Hickey announced, emphasizing each word as he stepped into the circle of light created by the flashlight on the stool. He dropped the stack of clothes on the floor and invited the others to sift through them. “Can’t you feel the aura emanating from them?”

 

“I can feel the lice,” Gibson sniffed, “no way I’m putting this on.”

 

“You don’t have to Billy,” Hickey said softly, “only one of us has to.”

 

Des Voeux smiled at him and snapped his fingers. “We’re doing another dramatization, aren’t we?” he exclaimed.

 

“Something like that.” Hickey eyed the mirrors. “If we are to arouse...I mean rouse....the spirits we must recreate an event that holds a special meaning to them. He dropped to his knees and sifted through the stash; assembling a costume composed of lavish embroidery, puffed sleeves, bell tipped slippers, and a frilled collar-roughly matching Blanky’s description of the cook’s outfit. “Manson,” he addressed the tallest man would make the most imposing apparition, “you will wear this.”

 

“Can I keep it?” Manson eyed the costume up and down. The fact that it was covered in cobwebs, had a rather uncomfortable looking hood, and possessed a very wrinkly texture did not bother him in the least. “Or I can borrow it...”

 

“Do whatever you want. Bobby? Head upstairs and grab those old clothes Des Voeux brought down. You’ll play the whaler.”

 

Golding opened his mouth and kept it that way, an unvoiced protest at the tip of his tongue. No, he decided, refusing was not an option. What would they think if he said no? Golding did not have the benefit of being close to Hickey, like Gibson and Tozer, or the benefit of growing up with the little Napoleon, like Manson and Des Voeux. His acceptance by this group harbored on his ability to prove himself, to win their admiration. “Sure thing,” he said.

 

“Perfect.” Hickey smiled at him. “Let’s get started.”

 

With an enthusiasm and single minded determination they had seldom felt before, they completely transformed the basement; turning it into a glittering ballroom with mirrored walls glistening like scales in the harsh, artificial lights shining from the portable lamps set up at regular intervals. They brought the entirety of the gear down, Manson easily hefting up the heavy equipment and placing it the items down according to Hickey’s specific instructions. The wooden floor was covered in the whitish drapes pulled from the mirrors and other, multi colored sheets of cloth, hung from the walls-all of these features flawlessly complementing each other, working in tandem to create an illusory effect. The mirrors lined against the walls played mischief against the investigator’s depth perception and made a mockery of distance and direction-making those two things vague concepts. Navigation was hard, and they groped and stumbled through this colorful explosion whose intensity was heightened by the light bouncing off the mirrors-magnified by the drapes below and above. Bewildering to their human eyes; a wonderful composition on camera-each of these devices being set in corner of the basement.

 

“Beautiful,” observed Des Voeux.

 

“It’s macabre,” replied Gibson. In his opinion, the darkness of the common room was preferable. Too much light could be a bad thing, he thought.

 

“Decayed grandeur is what we are aiming for,” Hickey snapped at them. “Colorful at first glance, but upon closer inspection you can see the stains on the floor, the shiny webs catching the light...Now,” Hickey addressed Manson, “you will wear that outfit and step behind that curtain we hung up in the back, you will only step out when it’s your part.” Hickey then rattled off some orders at Golding. “You will dress up in those old clothes and play a whaler enjoying a party before being rudely interrupted.”

 

The two complied easily enough, albeit Golding more reluctantly. Hickey watched Manson awkwardly lumber off to the curtain, struggling not to trip over the lower skirts of the greatcoat and it’s fanciful accoutrements, and noticed that a critical piece of the costume was missing! “Magnus, wait!”

 

He wheeled around. “Cornelius?”

 

“You won’t look scary at all with that friendly face of yours, not at all, so wear this,” Hickey said softly and came over to Manson, carrying an old mask he had found. “Be sure to wear this when you come out.” He held out a plain, pale, and, overly, featureless mask-the kind one would find at a fancy masquerade. He allowed Manzon to snatch it away. “Be careful with it.”

 

Now all was set. Hickey, Tozer, Des Voeux, and Gibson cleared the stage-leaving Golding alone on a white expanse, this scene being reflected by a countless number of mirrors, the boy stood in eternity. All four cameras were trained at him, so that his nervous glances and awkward shuffling could not be hidden. Hickey cleared his throat and began his monologue: of how a seaman far from home suffered a cruel and unusual death, the nature of the fantastic costumed parties held within this haunted place which was burdened with a haunted history, how the spirit of this poor wretch continues to haunt the place…That was Manson’s cue and what an entrance he made! His large form filled out the costume perfectly and his movements-slow and deliberate-carried a barely concealed menace that caused Golding to noticeably flinch and involuntarily take a step back. Hickey sighed in appreciation.

 

“Even now, the spectre of the Burned Man frightens those who dare visit the _Terror_ and its presence can be felt in every corner, in every crack, and in every shadow…” Hickey’s speech abruptly ended, allowing Golding to wave his hands in the air and let out a startled shout that might not have been completely staged.

 

Manson halted just a breath away from Golding.  

 

“And...cut! We’re done. Magnus, that that off,” said Des Voeux in a confident voice that suggested he had decided to put down _director_ next to _writer_ on his very imaginary list of accomplishments. “Are you deaf? We’re done here!” Des Voeux ordered when he saw that Manson was not immediately following his orders.

 

“Already?” a muffled voice complained from a ways off. A tall figure staggered out into the light, one in a tattered greatcoat covered in garish decorations, one that wore a mask. “But it was never my part! But what was my part?” Manson, unaware of his audience’s awestruck faces and surprised gasps, bumped into the so-called Burned Man. “Sorry.”

 

The oddly garbed stranger turned to face him. Manson tottered back.

 

“A-and who might you be?” he asked and-gathering a courage that all the others who stood aside, silent and utterly transfixed by the spectacle-lacked, he took off his mask and peered into that of the stranger. “I didn’t know there were two sets of costumes.”

 

“Jesus Christ Magnus, get away from... _that,_ ” Tozer whispered. He and the others were to the back of the thing staring down Manson, poor Golding petrified by fear and standing just an inch behind the thing. Tozer slowly creeped forward to the boy, hoping to drag him back to the safety of… of what?

 

The Burned Man did not move at all as Tozer came closer and closer; Manson did not either but from where he was at Tozer couldn’t tell whether it was because he was too scared or simply clueless. Well, he couldn’t save both of them, Manson would have to handle himself. When he was close enough he softly grabbed Golding’s elbow and slowly dragged him away. “Be quiet,” he whispered, “come on.” Tozer looked back to the others for help but quickly realized they’d be no use. Too scared. All except for Hickey who looked more intrigued than anything, his head craned forwards and his deep, blue eyes, wide open.

 

“Is that you Mr. Blanky? Th-this is a joke?” Manson asked. “Sorry about going into the basement.” He backed off when, in way of response, the Burned Man lifted a hand, but it did not go to Manson’s throat. Instead it went to it’s mask and took it off. Tozer could not see it’s face, none of them could from where they were. All except for Magnus Manson.

 

He screamed.

 

And, still screaming, he pushed the thing away with all his strength and sent it flying backwards towards Tozer who panicked, dropping Golding who finally cried out and shot his arms out and over him like drowning man. The Burned Man, backing on it’s heels, merely stepped over the boy and now turned to to stare down Tozer-who did not wait to meet the thing’s glare, knowing that it had to be truly awful judging by how Manson was panicking.

 

The large man had stopped screaming only because he ran out of breath, but his legs still moved with a life of their own. He crashed into a mirror and, like a row of dominoes, they all fell in an avalanche of crashing glass, sending shiny fragments across the impromptu stage that the terrified investigators loudly crunched over as they struggled to find the exit-a mad effort done in vain. The falling mirrors caused beams of blinding light to leap and dance all over the place, bright tendrils in a senseless, cadaveric spasm. Tozer bent low, squinted his eyes against the glare, and darted to what had to be an end of the room; ignoring the chorus of screams, cries and shouts all around him. He heard a camera topple over next to him and a high pitched tearing as someone ran into the one of the hanging drapes it tore it down in an effort to find the exit. Manson did not help matters for he had become a mad force constantly bouncing off the walls and leaving destruction behind in his wake. Lamps exploded under his stomping feet and soon large shadows intruded upon the scene, complementing the still extant streaks of light. _Chiaroscuro,_ Tozer thought.

 

But where was the fucking exit? The Burned Man?

 

“Solomon!” Hickey called to him. “This way!” He stood away from the commotion, one hand lifting up a drape and exposing the exit.  

 

“Exit’s here! Come on!” Tozer bellowed at the others, noticing that Hickey had made no effort to do so. Pressing his back against the wall, he saw Manson hurtling towards him with a very haggard Des Voeux clinging to his back. “Billy?! Where are you!”

 

“Solomon, I don’t feel so good…” came a whimpering voice that was so close and yet so far away. Tozer looked left, right and finally, down to see that Gibson had sunk to the floor. The delicate waif, always so sensitive, must have fainted of fright; he lay on the floor now, a rosy tint still on his cheeks and his full lips wrinkled somewhat. Tozer remembered dropping poor Golding and decided that if he couldn’t save one he could do so with Billy, in spite of all that had gone on between them. _Guess I really am a softy_. Tozer easily lifted him up and stood aside to aloud for Manson to loudly lumber up the stairs before ascending himself.

 

On the way up he caught sight of Hickey. Cornelius was not afraid, nor did he show much emotion really-he locked faintly, bemused? His eyes, normally blue, were a deep and fathomless black in the dying light.

 

They all vanished quickly upstairs. Leaving behind torn cloth, trampled devices, and shattered mirrors. Stray light danced around a final time around a solitary figure-a lone black pillar standing still amongst the chaos-until it slowly ebbed away and darkness returned once more.

 

Silence resumed it’s reign.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! What will they do about this? What secrets are waiting to be discovered? Does Tozer need a new laptop? Will they start making sensible decisions? (Probably not) 
> 
> A threesome between Hickey, Gibson, and Tozer was seriously considered but I felt the chapter was going on long enough. Paranormal terminology would have been used and at one point Hickey would have been described as a, ‘very hungry person at an all you can eat buffet’ and maybe a ghost would have gotten involved. I don’t know, it could have gone in plenty of directions. As for something considered and gone through with was the possessed platypus scene. Originally, no such thing was planned but I couldn’t resist going for the low hanging fruit. I also feel bad for ignoring Thomas Armitage, he was a cool member of Hickey & Friends. Maybe he’ll show up later. 
> 
> How come Ghost Adventures never won an Emmy? It has history, ghosts, an episode about a very interesting location I live close to, and Zak.

**Author's Note:**

> It begins…
> 
> Show!Des Voeux and Book!Des Voeux are two very different characters-the former is a hothead while the latter is a competent character who takes prominence later in the book. The Des Voeux in this story in an odd combination of the two and some personal imagination thrown in.


End file.
